The Osterman weekend Page 8

  "All right. You're convincing. But I went out to the driveway three times this morning, not twice."

  "No, you didn't. The third time you remained in the garage doorway. You didn't physically walk out onto the driveway. And it wasn't morning, it was twelve-fourteen." Fassett laughed. "Feeling better now?"

  "I'd be an awful liar if I didn't admit it." "You're not a liar. Not generally at any rate. Your file makes that very clear." Fassett laughed again. Even Tanner smiled.

  "You're really too much, you know that. I'll go into the office tomorrow."

  "When it's all over, you and your wife will have to get together with me and mine for an evening. I think they'd like each other. Drinks will be on me. Dewars White Label with a tall soda for you and Scotch on the rocks with a pinch of water for your wife."

  "Good God! If you start describing our sex life...."

  "Let me check the index...."

  "Go to hell," Tanner laughed, relieved. "We'll take you up on that evening."

  "You should. We'd get along."

  "Name the date, we'll be there."

  "I'll make a point of it on Monday. Be in touch. You have the emergency number for after hours. Don't hesitate to call."

  "I won't. I'll be in the office tomorrow."

  "Fine. And do me a favor. Don't plan any more programs on us. My employers didn't like the last one."

  Tanner remembered. The program Fassett referred to had been a Woodward Show. The writers had come up with the phrase Caught in the Act for the letters C.I.A. It was a year ago, almost to the week. "It wasn't bad."

  "It wasn't good. I saw that one. I wanted to laugh my head off but I couldn't. I was with the Director, in his living room. Caught in the Act! Jesus!" Fassett laughed again, putting Tanner more at ease than the news director thought possible.

  "Thanks, Fassett."

  Tanner put down the telephone and crushed out his cigarette. Fassett was a thorough professional, he thought. And Fassett was right. No one could get near Ali and the kids. For all he knew, the C.I.A. had snipers strapped to the trees. What was left for him to do was precisely what Fassett said: nothing. Just go about business as usual. No break from routine, no deviation from the norm. He felt he could play the role now. The protection was everything Fassett said it would be.

  However, one thought bothered him, and the more he considered it, the more it disturbed him.

  It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. The Tremaynes, the Cardones and the Ostermans had all been contacted by now. The harassment had begun. Yet none had seen fit to call the police. Or even to call him.

  Was it really possible that six people who had been his friends for years were not what they seemed to be?

  7

  Tuesday — 9:40 a.m. California Time

  The Karmann Ghia swung off Wilshire Boulevard onto Beverly Drive. Osterman knew he was exceeding the Los Angeles speed limit; it seemed completely unimportant. He couldn't think about anything except the warning he had just received. He had to get home to Leila. They had to talk seriously now. They had to decide what to do.

  Why had they been singled out?

  Who was warning them? And about what?

  Leila was probably right. Tanner was their friend, as good a friend as they'd ever known. But he was also a man who valued reserve in friendship. There were areas one never touched. There was always the slight quality of distance, a thin glass wall that came between Tanner and any other human being. Except, of course, Ali.

  And Tanner now possessed information that touched them somehow, meant something to him and Leila. And Zurich was part of it. But, Christ! How?

  Osterman reached the foot of the Mulholland hill and drove rapidly to the top, past the huge, early-pastiche mansions that were peopled by those near, or once near, the top of the Hollywood spectrum. A few of the houses were going to seed, decaying relics of past extravagance. The speed limit in the Mulholland section was thirty. Osterman's speedometer read fifty-one. He pressed down on the accelerator. He had decided what to do. He would pick up Leila and head for Malibu. The two of them would find a phone booth on the highway and call Tremayne and Cardone.

  The mournful wail of the siren, growing louder, jarred him. It was a sound effect in this town of devices. It wasn't real, nothing here was real. It couldn't be for him.

  But, of course, it was.

  "Officer, I'm a resident here. Osterman. Bernard Osterman. 260 Caliente. Surely you know my house." It was a statement made positively. Caliente was impressive acreage.

  "Sorry, Mr. Osterman. Your license and registration, please."

  "Now, look. I had a call at the studio that my wife wasn't feeling well. I think it's understandable I'm in a hurry."

  "Not at the expense of pedestrians. Your license and registration."

  Osterman gave them to him and stared straight ahead, controlling his anger. The police officer wrote lethargically on the long rectangular traffic summons and when he finished, he stapled Bernie's license to it.

  At the sound of the snap, Osterman looked up. "Do you have to mutilate the license?"

  The policeman sighed wearily, holding onto the summons. "You could have lost it for thirty days, mister. I lessened the speed; send in ten bucks like a parking ticket." He handed the summons to Bernie. "I hope your wife feels better."

  The officer returned to the police car. He spoke once more through the open window. "Don't forget to put your license back in your wallet."

  The police car sped off.

  Osterman threw down the summons and turned his ignition key. The Karmann Ghia started down the Mulholland slope. Half in disgust, Bernie looked at the summons on the seat next to him.

  Then he looked again.

  There was something wrong with it. The shape was right, the unreadable print was crowded in the inadequate space as usual, but the paper rang false. It seemed too shiny, too blurred even for a summons from the Motor Vehicle Department of the City of Los Angeles.

  Osterman stopped. He picked up the summons and looked at it closely. The violations had been marked carelessly, inaccurately, by the police officer. They hadn't really been marked at all.

  And then Osterman realized that the face of the card was only a thin photostat attached to a thicker sheet of paper.

  He turned it over and saw that there was a message written in red pencil, partially covered by his stapled license. He ripped the license off and read:

  Word received that Tanner's neighbors may have cooperated with him. This is a potentially dangerous situation made worse because our information is incomplete. Use extreme caution and find out what you can. It is vital we know — you know — extent of their involvement. Repeat. Use extreme caution,

  Zurich

  Osterman stared at the red letters and his fear produced a sudden ache at his temples. The Tremaynes and the Cardones too!

  8

  Tuesday — 4:30 p.m.

  Dick Tremayne wasn't on the four-fifty local to Saddle Valley. Cardone, sitting inside his Cadillac, swore out loud. He had tried to reach Tremayne at his office but was told that the lawyer had gone out for an early lunch. There was no point in having Tremayne call him back. Joe had decided to return to Saddle Valley and meet all the trains from three-thirty on.

  Cardone left the station, turned left at the intersection of Saddle Road, and headed west toward the open country. He had thirty-five minutes until the next train was due. Perhaps the drive would help relax him. He couldn't just wait at the station. If anyone was watching him it would look suspicious.

  Tremayne would have some answers. Dick was a damned good lawyer, and he'd know the legal alternatives, if there were any.

  On the outskirts of Saddle Valley Joe reached a stretch of road bordered by fields. A Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce passed him on his left, and Cardone noted that the huge automobile was traveling extremely fast, much too fast for the narrow country road. He kept driving for several miles, vaguely aware that he was traveling through open country now. He would pro
bably have to turn around in some farmer's driveway. But ahead of him was a long winding curve which, he remembered, had wide shoulders. He'd turn around there. It was time to head back to the station.

  He reached the curve and slowed down, prepared to swing hard to his right onto the wide shoulder.

  He couldn't.

  The Silver Cloud was parked off the road under the trees, blocking him.

  Annoyed, Cardone gunned the engine and proceeded several hundred yards ahead where, since there were no other cars in sight, he made the cramped turn.

  Back at the station, Cardone looked at his watch. Five-nineteen, almost five-twenty. He could see the entire length of the platform. He'd spot Tremayne if he got off. He hoped the lawyer would be on the five-twenty-five. The waiting was intolerable.

  A car pulled up behind his Cadillac, and Cardone looked up.

  It was the Silver Cloud. Cardone began to sweat.

  A massive man, well over six feet tall, got out of the car and walked slowly toward Cardone's open window. He was dressed in a chauffeur's uniform.

  "Mr. Cardione?"

  "The name's Cardone." The man's hands, which gripped the base of Joe's window, were immense. Much larger and thicker than his own.

  "Okay. Whatever you like...."

  "You passed me a little while ago, didn't you? On Saddle Road."

  "Yes, sir, I did. I haven't been far from you all day."

  Cardone involuntarily swallowed and shifted his weight. "I find that a remarkable statement. Needless to say, very disturbing."

  "I'm sorry...."

  "I'm not interested in apologies. I want to know why. Why are you following me? I don't know you. I don't like being followed."

  "No one does. I'm only doing what I'm told to do."

  "What is it? What do you want?"

  The chauffeur moved his hands, just slightly, as if to call attention to their size and great strength. "I've been instructed to bring you a message, and then I'll leave. I've a long drive. My employer lives in Maryland."

  "What message? Who from?"

  "Mr. Da Vinci, sir."

  "Da Vinci?"

  "Yes sir. I believe he got in touch with you this morning."

  "I don't know your Mr. Da Vinci. . . . What message?"

  "That you should not confide m Mr. Tremayne."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Only what Mr. Da Vinci told me, Mr. Cardione."

  Cardone stared into the huge man's eyes. There was intelligence behind the blank fagade. "Why did you wait until now? You've been following me all day. You could have stopped me hours ago."

  "I wasn't instructed to. There's a radio-phone in the car. I was told to make contact just a few minutes ago."

  "Who told you?"

  "Mr. Da Vinci, sir..."

  "That's not his name! Now, who is he?" Cardone fought his anger. He took a deep breath before speaking. "You tell me who Da Vinci is."

  "There's more to the message," said the chauffeur, disregarding Cardone's question. "Mr. Da Vinci says you should know that Tremayne may have talked to Mr. Tanner. No one's sure yet, but that's what it looks like."

  "He what? Talked to him about what?"

  "I don't know, sir. It's not my job to know. I'm hired to drive a car and deliver messages."

  "Your message isn't clear! I don't understand it! What good is a message if it isn't clear!" Cardone strained to keep in control.

  "Perhaps the last part will help you, sir. Mr. Da Vinci feels it would be a good idea if you tried to find out the extent of Mr. Tremayne's involvement with Tanner. But you must be careful. Very, very careful. As you must be careful with your friends from California. That's important."

  The chauffeur backed away from the Cadillac and slapped two fingers against his cap's visor.

  "Wait a minute!" Cardone reached for the door handle, but the huge man in uniform swiftly clamped his hands on the window ledge and held the door shut.

  "No, Mr. Cardione. You stay inside there. You shouldn't call attention to yourself. The train's coming in."

  "No, please! Please ... I want to talk to Da Vinci! We've got to talk! Where can I reach him?"

  "No way, sir." The chauffeur held the door effortlessly.

  "You prick!" Cardone pulled the handle and shoved his whole weight against the door. It gave just a bit and then slammed shut again under the chauffeur's hands. "I'll break you in half!"

  The train pulled to a stop in front of the platform. Several men got off and the shriek of two whistle blasts pierced the air.

  The chauffeur spoke calmly. "He's not on the train, Mr. Cardione. He drove into town this morning. We know that, too."

  The train slowly started up and rolled down the tracks. Joe stared at the immense human being holding the car door shut. His anger was nearly beyond control but he was realistic enough to know it would do him no good. The chauffeur stepped back, gave Cardone a second informal salute and walked rapidly towards the Rolls-Royce. Cardone pushed the car door open and stepped out onto the hot pavement.

  "Hello there, Joe!" The caller was Amos Needham, of the second contingent of Saddle Valley commuters. A vice-president of Manufacturers Hanover Trust and the chairman of the special events committee for the Saddle Valley Country Club. "You market boys have it easy. When it gets rough you stay home and wait for the calm to set in, eh?"

  "Sure, sure, Amos." Cardone kept his eye on the chauffeur of the Rolls, who had climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

  "I tell you," continued Amos, "I don't know where you young fellas are taking us! . . . Did you see the quotes for DuPont? Everybody else takes a bath and it zooms up! Told my trust committee to consult the Ouija board. To hell with you upstart brokers." Needham chuckled and then suddenly waved his small arm, flagging down a Lincoln Continental approaching the depot. "There's Ralph. Can I give you a lift, Joe? . . . But, of course not. You just stepped out of your car."

  The Lincoln pulled up to the platform, and Amos Needham's chauffeur started to get out.

  "No need, Ralph. I can still manipulate a door handle. By the way, Joe . . . that Rolls you're looking at reminds me of a friend of mine. Couldn't be, though. He lived in Maryland."

  Cardone snapped his head around and looked at the innocuous banker. "Maryland? Who in Maryland?"

  Amos Needham held the car door open and returned Cardone's stare with unconcerned good humor. "Oh, I don't think you'd know him. He's been dead for years. . . . Funny name. Used to kid him a lot... . His name was Caesar."

  Amos Needham stepped into his Lincoln and closed the door. At the top of Station Parkway the Rolls-Royce turned right and roared off towards the main arteries leading to Manhattan. Cardone stood on the tarred surface of the Saddle Valley railroad station and he was afraid.

  Tremayne!

  Tremayne was with Tanner!

  Osterman was with Tanner!

  Da Vinci... Caesar!

  The architects of war!

  And he, Guiseppe Ambruzzio Cardione, was alone!

  Oh, Christ! Christ! Son of God! Blessed Mary! Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ! Wash my hands with his blood! The blood of the lamb! Jesus! Jesus! Forgive me my sins! . . . Mary and Jesus! Christ Incarnate! God all holy!

  What have I done?

  9

  Tuesday — 5:00 P.M.

  Tremayne walked aimlessly for hours; up and down the familiar streets of the East Side. Yet if anyone had stopped him and asked him where he was, he could not have answered.

  He was consumed. Frightened. Blackstone had said everything and clarified nothing.

  And Cardone had hed. To somebody. His wife or his office, it didn't matter. What mattered was that Cardone couldn't be reached. Tremayne knew that the panic wouldn't stop until he and Cardone figured out between them what Osterman had done.

  Had Osterman betrayed them?

  Was that really it? Was it possible?

  He crossed Vanderbilt Avenue, realizing he had walked to the Biltmore Hotel without thinking a
bout a destination.

  It was understandable, he thought. The Biltmore brought back memories of the carefree times.

  He walked through the lobby almost expecting to see some forgotten friend from his teens—and suddenly he was staring at a man he hadn't seen in over twenty-five years. He knew the face, changed terribly with the years—bloated, it seemed to Tremayne, lined—but he couldn't remember the name. The man went back to prep-school days.

  Awkwardly the two men approached each other.

  "Dick . . . Dick Tremayne! It is Dick Tremayne, isn't it?"

  "Yes. And you're... Jim?"

  "Jack! Jack Townsend! How are you, Dick?" The men shook hands, Townsend far more enthusiastic. "It must be twenty-five, thirty years! You look great! How the hell do you keep the weight down? Gave up myself."

  "You look fine. Really, you look swell. I didn't know you were in New York."

  "I'm not. Based in Toledo. Just in for a couple of days.... I swear to God, I had a crazy thought coming in on the plane. I canceled the Hilton and thought I'd grab a room here just to see if any of the old crowd ever came in. Insane, huh? . . . And look what I run into!"

  "That's funny. Really funny. I was thinking the same sort of thing a few seconds ago."

  "Let's get a drink."

  Townsend kept spouting opinions that were formed in the traditions of corporate thought. He was being very boring.

  Tremayne kept thinking about Cardone. As he drank his third drink he looked around for the bar telephone booth he remembered from his youth. It was hidden near the kitchen entrance, and only Biltmore habitues-in-good-standing knew of its existence.

  It wasn't there any more. And Jack Townsend kept talking, talking, remembering the unmemorable out loud.

  There were two Negroes in leather jackets, beads around their necks, standing several feet away from them.

  They wouldn't have been there in other days.

  The pleasant days.

  Tremayne drank his fourth drink in one assault; Townsend wouldn't stop talking.

  He had to call Joe! The panic was starting again. Maybe Joe would, in a single sentence, unravel the puzzle of Osterman.